The Slayer in the Devil's Den in the Dead of Night
by Sharibet
Summary: London, 1781. A new Slayer dares to enter The Devil's Den, a notorious vampire pub. Completed.


In the Devil's Den in the Dark of Night 

Author's Note: This story is set in the Buffy universe, but deals with an earlier Slayer. No Buffy, no Angel, no Spike, I'm sorry to say. It was written as an entry to a private challenge among a group of my friends to incorporate the name of a real town in California (Devil's Den) into a story.

London, Halloween 1781

It was dark on this street, but all things considered, that was probably for the best. The uneven cobbles felt slimy underfoot, and the icy autumn wind sweeping through the narrow, crooked alleys stank of stale urine, fresh vomit, and old despair. It was the same stench of poverty that permeated the rest of Whitechapel, a slum dominated by the ancient buildings that leaned over the filthy streets, the darkness concealing flaking plaster, broken shutters, and rotten staircases clinging to the outsides of slouching houses. 

Two people came walking slowly up the street, looking around as if they were searching for something. One was tall and broad-shouldered, the other short and slender even under the layered bulk of a coachman's cape. 

Though plainly dressed in a broadcloth coat and breeches, the tall man looked out of place here. 

Halfway up the street he halted, thrusting the flaming torch in his hand upwards to examine a faded sign painted on a cracked board overhanging the street. In the flickering golden light, a crudely-painted horned figure emerged from a clumsily-drawn cave. 

"The Devil's Den," announced the tall man, with some satisfaction. "I knew it was on this street. Are you ready for your test, Christina?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, Mr. Stephenson." His slight companion removed her enveloping cloak to reveal that she was a young woman--a girl, really--dressed in men's clothing, her boots, breeches and long, plain coat similar to Stephenson's.  A fall of white lace showed briefly at her wrists as she reached up to remove her tricorn hat, uncovering a tightly-plaited coil of long dark hair. More surprising even than her youth was the sword that hung at her hip. Not the slender, elegant rapiers used by fashionable duelists, but a soldier's broadsword, plain and deadly.

She drew the sword with an assurance far beyond her years, and prepared to open the rough plank door. Yellow light shone in thin trails between the boards, and from inside came the sounds of conversation and a drinking song. 

Stephenson stopped her with a hand to the shoulder. He whispered: "Let the vampires make the first move--there are humans in the Den as well, and you won't know which are which until they reveal themselves by attacking." He patted her shoulder, a little nervously.

She nodded curtly. "I know that, sir. Wouldn't want to skewer someone if he was merely trying to rape me rather than drink my blood, now would I?" 

Stephenson gave a nearly-silent chuff of laughter, then stepped back. "Good luck, my girl." 

Christina eased open the tavern door a few inches, and slid in, hoping to minimize her entrance. Inside, the air was filled with an eye-watering mix of tobacco fumes and coal smoke, and the sour, yeasty smell of spilled ale. She blinked watering eyes, and squinted, trying to discern human from vampire in a room crowded with roughly-dressed men sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with gentlemen at long trestle tables. Branches of tallow candles burned smokily, flickering as she closed the door behind her.

Her attempts to enter unnoticed failed. "Hey-ho I spy a doxy in breeches!" came a drunken-sounding exclamation. "How much you asking for a bit of a cuddle, then, chook?"

Christina stepped sideways, put the wall against her back, and held her sword at the ready. "I'm not a--a whore. And I don't want any t-trouble."

Damme, but her voice sounded shaky! She had been practicing for this moment for months, years. She was the Slayer. But right now, she sounded like a little girl. 

"But you came in here, didn't you, little girl?" someone called out from the far end of the room. Christina couldn't see the speaker, but her grip tightened around her sword hilt. "Seem like you were just looking for trouble." 

"Yeah," another man added, rising to his feet. "So let's have a little of what you've got. You look sweet and tender--a regular piece of the Quality, eh?"

He reached for her, and Christina sidestepped, brandishing her sword. "Get away from me."  This wasn't going as planned. None of the men in here seemed to be vampires...yet, the nauseous feeling that always overwhelmed her in the presence of the undead was strong here. 

"Now, don't be so skittish, sweet thing. I'm not going to hu--ow!" He snatched back a bleeding hand, and suddenly his face changed, transforming into something snarling and inhuman. A vampire!

Then the fight was on! Mr. Stephenson had thought there might be one or two vampires here, but it seemed that at least half the tavern's patrons suddenly sprouted the fangs and distorted features of the undead. 

Christina didn't have time to think, only to react and fight as she'd been taught over these many months. She knew she was quick, and strong, but her opponents were just as quick and even stronger. As two of them rushed her, she leapt up onto the top of the table then vaulted over their heads, refusing to let them box her in. She landed in a half-crouch, her sword in one hand and a stake in the other, pulled from its holster in one loose sleeve. 

She caught a movement behind her, and faster than thought, spun and ran her sword through her attacker. He screamed and toppled to the ground, his dirty shirt rapidly turning scarlet from his wound, the jug he'd raised to smash over her head falling from his hand and rolling away. Oh no--a human! 

In a flash, two of the vampires had seized him and buried their fangs in his throat, sucking out the remnants of his life. Christina froze in horror--her assailant was trying to scream as the vampires dragged him away, but only a broken whisper emerged. 

Her instant of distraction proved her undoing--it allowed several vampires to seize her from behind. Her sword and stake were snatched from her hands before she could draw breath. Holding her tightly, the vampires dragged her to the plank table, clearing the tankards and plate away with the crash of shattering crockery. 

There, she was spread-eagled like sacrificial victim and held fast despite her struggles. It couldn't end like this! Not on her first night as the Vampire Slayer!

Then another vampire rose to his feet. He had been sitting in an old armchair in one corner of the room, watching the progress of the fight. Christina caught her breath as he came into the candlelight, sickened by the ripe aura of evil that surrounded him.

He was coldly beautiful, his long, unpowdered hair the color of ripe hazelnuts, caught up by a black silk ribbon. Diamonds glittered on the buttons of his brocade coat, his shoe buckles, and on his long, elegant fingers. A single, large, teardrop-shaped jewel hung from his earlobe, and the fashionable rouge and powder he wore only served to highlight the perfection of his eyes and his curving archangel's mouth. 

Pinned to the table, Christina craned her head to follow his approach, fear writhing in icy coils through her belly. 

"Well, now," said the beautiful vampire, his voice as smooth and deep as hot chocolate under his upper-class drawl. "It's the new Slayer. I was wondering when they would send you to pay your respects to me." 

He reached down and languidly unbuttoned her coat as she squirmed and struggled against the iron hands holding her captive,. Then he drew a knife, and sliced through the fine linen from her neck to the top of her breeches. She stopped struggling and lay utterly still, not even breathing, feeling the tickle of the dagger-tip like a caress. But his control was absolute, and her skin was left unmarred under the ruined shirt.

"Did you know that I was once a doctor, little Slayer?" 

She was determined to say nothing, but her eyes widened despite herself.

"Oh, yes, and I taught courses in anatomy." He flipped aside the frayed edges of her shirt like a man opening a book, and she felt the brush of cool air against her bare torso. "They tell me that Slayers are different from other mortals. If I sliced you open, I wonder whether I would find anything out of the ordinary. Would you still have the same heart, the same lungs, the same stomach as normal men and women? Shall I see for myself? It could be...quite interesting." His smooth voice lingered over that last phrase.

He severed the bandages that bound her breasts, and Christina felt them slide away, leaving her exposed, vulnerable. She shuddered convulsively as he passed the cold flat of the blade over her nipples with a contemplative look, but left her unscathed. He chuckled, and tapped her breastbone with the tip of the dagger. "I think I shall vivisect you, Slayer, and write an anatomy textbook for my fellow vampires... know thy enemy, so to speak." 

He angled his knife, and drew it slowly down the bare skin of her stomach, raising a line of dark red. She stifled a gasp at the sudden pain. He smiled, then raised the knife, and sensuously licked the blade. "Mmmm, Slayer's blood. Not as sweet as I've heard, but tasty enough. Little morsel, you call yourself a Slayer, but you're just a lamb to the slaughter. You should never have come here alone--"

There was deep thrum, like the throb of a cello, and a look of shock crossed the vampire's beautiful face. He stared down, incredulous, at the crossbow bolt that had suddenly sprouted in his chest. Then, with a terrible cry, he exploded into a cloud of gray dust. 

"But I didn't come alone to the Devil's Den in the dark of night," remarked Christina, as she took advantage of her remaining captors' shock to free herself from the hands that held her captive. 

Another stake sprang into her hand from its concealed sheath in her sleeve. A swift blow to the right, and another to the left, and two more vampires vanished, followed by the rest in short order.  

Only then did she draw close her coat, and fasten the buttons with shaking fingers. 

"A Slayer always has her Watcher, after all." And she had a lot left to learn from him...

The End


End file.
